A Grave Discovery
by QueenoftheDarned
Summary: Two perfectly ordinary Victorian gentlemen go for a late-night stroll through a graveyard, and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happens. They certainly do NOT come across a recently exhumed grave. And even if they did, they definitely wouldn't investigate. In the middle of the night. Together. That would be ridiculous.


**A Grave Discovery**

The streets of London were shrouded in fog, as the distant chime of Big Ben marked the late hour. The neat rows of tombstones stood out like broken teeth in the dim light, as two figures made their way through Tower Hamlets Cemetery. One was tall and wiry, dressed in black and sporting an impressive set of mutton chops that were very much in fashion. He strolled along with long-legged ease, but his companion, dressed in a handsome (but terribly impractical) cream-coloured suit, was lagging behind.

"Crowley," the shorter man said, a little breathlessly, "Do slow down. What's the hurry?" Crowley stopped and turned to his friend, masking his concern behind his dark glasses with an artfully raised eyebrow.

"There's no hurry," he said. "I find the night air invigorating."

"Invigorating," repeated Aziraphale drily, eyeing the tendrils of fog that clung to the gravestones surrounding them. "Quite."

Night pressed in on all sides, the damp chill in the air making Aziraphale shiver. Across the city, thousands of chimneys belched smoke into the air. The smog would be impenetrable come morning.  
"Why do you like this place so much?" he complained. "What's wrong with a nice walk along the river?"

"It's peaceful here."

"It's _morbid_."

"Haven't you heard, Angel? Morbid is all the rage. You can hardly go anywhere without bumping into some so-called spiritualist." He smiled a serpentine smile and added; "I've been to a couple myself. They're a lot more interesting when I'm around."

"Oh, _don't_ tell me." Aziraphale raised his eyes heavenward. "I don't want to know."

"Probably for the best." Crowley turned and carried on, this time slowing his pace to a gentle lope so Aziraphale could keep up.

An onlooker might have been surprised (not to mention suspicious) to see two well-dressed gentlemen taking a night-time stroll through a graveyard in the East End. A particularly unscrupulous onlooker might see them as an easy mark - they would be wrong, of course, but luckily for London's criminal populace, there was no one around to bother them.

At least, not anymore.

The pair came to an abrupt stop, eyes widening as they took in the scene before them. A mound of dirt sat between two tombstones, dark against the grass and clearly out of place. Darker still was the gaping hole beside it.

"What in Heaven's name-" Aziraphale trailed off as his voice echoed down the rows of gravestones.

"A late-night exhumation," Crowley murmured to himself, leaning forward to get a better look. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of fresh, damp earth reached his sensitive nose. "Or _hum_ation?"

"_Inhumation,_" Aziraphale corrected him automatically, then frowned and shook his head. "No, that makes no sense. Why would anyone perform a burial in the middle of the night?"

"We seem to be missing the prerequisite body, too." Crowley took a step back. "Someone's up to no good, and for once it's not me."

Aziraphale dug the toe of his shoe into the grass, where a large section had been flattened by something heavy.

"They must have moved the coffin…" he squinted into the darkness. "I've heard stories of such things. Body snatchers, they call them. They dig up the recently deceased - usually the poor - and sell them on. It's vile."

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," sniffed Crowley. "It's not like the dead care much, once your lot or my lot have them-"

"_-Crowley!_"

"I was joking, Angel." Crowley made a soft noise of satisfaction as something in the soft earth caught his eye. "Footprints," he said, turning expectantly back to Aziraphale. "Shall we?"

"Absolutely not!" Aziraphale folded his arms, fighting to keep his voice down.

"They can't have gone far, if they were on foot."

"I am not playing Sherlock Holmes with you in the middle of London this late at night!" Aziraphale declared. "Especially not in this suit," he added.

"Don't you want to see who's responsible for this?" Crowley flapped a hand at the open grave.

"Not particularly."

"Might be evildoers."

"It's _dark_, Crowley." Aziraphale's tone turned ever so slightly pleading, and Crowley bit back a grin. He knew he had him.

"Ah well," he said, with an exaggerated shrug. "I suppose I can go and find out myself."

"We're not supposed to meddle in human affairs!"

"_You're_ not supposed to meddle. I don't have to follow the rules, remember?" Crowley had already started to walk away, his voice fading into the darkness.

"And look where that got you," muttered Aziraphale under his breath, though he was already hurrying to catch up before his friend disappeared into the murk.

**ΨψΨψΨ**

As the greenery of Tower Hamlets Cemetery gave way to the shadowed streets of Mile End, the boot prints became a trail of mud, leading Crowley and Aziraphale to a narrow side street. Here, the meagre light from the few working gas lamps did little to illuminate their progress. Aziraphale grit his teeth and kept his eyes fixed on Crowley's lean silhouette, lest he disappear from view entirely.

Crowley, for his part, was rather enjoying himself. The time he'd spent devouring copies of _The Strand_ were finally being put to good use. Eventually they came out at the end of the alley, where it opened onto another road. The mud trail had disappeared somewhere along the way.

"Oh dear, they must have gotten into a cart or something," said Aziraphale, trying not to sound too relieved. "Well, what a shame, perhaps we should-" he blinked as movement across the street caught his eye. Crowley followed his gaze and found he was staring at a small chapel behind a wrought-iron fence. Judging from the state of it, it had been abandoned for some time. "That's strange. I thought I saw a light."

"Yes, probably a person. It's a _church_, Angel. Humans like them," said Crowley impatiently. "For some reason," he added under his breath. Aziraphale shook his head, his frown deepening.

"Something's not right." He hurried across the street, and this time it was Crowley's turn to groan and drag his heels. He winced as they approached, bracing himself for the burn of consecrated ground. He was pleasantly surprised when he stepped through the gate and felt...

"Nothing. That's… different," he remarked.

"Don't you feel that?" Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself, practically squirming with discomfort.

"Feel what?"

"It feels… wrong." To the angel, the air had a disgusting feel to it, like the oily sheen on the surface of polluted water. He glanced at the front door of the chapel, then at Crowley. "Would you mind terribly..?"

"It's a worrying sign when _I'm_ the one opening church doors." Crowley sighed and reached for the door, glad he was wearing gloves. He needn't have worried – the iron handle stayed cold and inert. He gave the door a shove, and it swung inward on hinges that protested at the lack of attention they'd been given over the years. Inches behind him, Aziraphale let out a quiet gasp.

The inside of the chapel was draped in swathes of black fabric, the pews pushed aside and the nave filled with dripping black candles.

"That explains a lot," said Crowley, eyeing a rather ugly statuette that definitely hadn't been part of the original décor. Aziraphale didn't answer – he was too busy staring at something on the bare flagstone floor.

Leading deeper into the chapel was a trail of muddy scratches. The pair followed it with their gaze. Aziraphale stiffened, and a moment later so did Crowley.

"I think we found your mystery light," he said, his voice low.

From the gap under the door came the unmistakable flicker of candlelight.

**ΨψΨψΨ**

The ceremony was conducted in silence, although the crypt was full of the sound of bare feet shuffling on the cold stone floor and the smell of candle wax. Five robed men moved in unison as they rotated about the room, circling the body on the floor with slow, precise steps.

Low Deacon Wilkes, of the East End chapter of the Diabolical Fellowship of London, surveyed their progress with a critical eye. He had formed the summoning circle with painstaking care, double and triple-checking to ensure there were no gaps, no broken lines. The body in the circle's centre would make a fine conduit - or, at least, he hoped it would. The man had been a nobody in life, but if all went well tonight he would at least be useful as a host. _If_ he was strong enough. The others were already beginning to doubt Wilkes; he'd seen the way they'd looked at him after the last failed attempt. The clean-up had been torturous.

Wilkes pushed down the feeling of butterflies in his stomach – Low Deacons weren't supposed to get butterflies, damn it! – and checked the sigils one final time before stepping forward and raising his arms. It was time.

Unbeknownst to Wilkes, there already _was_ a demon in the crypt with him, although definitely not the type to do anyone's bidding. He and the angel huddled beside him watched the proceedings with rapidly growing apprehension.

**ΨψΨψΨ**

"Are they doing what I think they're doing?" Aziraphale whispered in Crowley's ear. They were crouched, semi-hidden, in the shadows on the stairs. Luckily, the robed men were so absorbed in their task they hadn't noticed they had company.

The empty coffin, still streaked with damp earth, lay discarded on the far end of the crypt. Its occupant had been laid out in the centre of a chalk circle. Just as Aziraphale had feared, it was the body of a man dressed in pauper's clothes, with the broad shoulders and rough hands of a labourer. If he were one to judge (he wasn't), it hadn't been deceased for very long.

One of the cowled figures stepped forward and raised his arms, his voice rising out of the oppressive silence and echoing around the walls of the crypt. His fellows knelt in a wide semi-circle around him, heads bowed and hands clasped reverentially in front of them.

"Bless it," Crowley swore, and turned to his companion. "You really should get out of here." Aziraphale's eyes widened with righteous indignation.

"I can't leave now! If there are forces of hell I have to – to vanquish them! Or something!"

"Yes, that's very noble of you, but in a few seconds one of the millions of demons of Hell is going to enter that corpse-" Aziraphale made a face "-and if they see you, they'll try to kill you, and that would _really_ spoil my evening."

"But what will you-?"

"_-Just go, for badness' sake!_" Crowley hissed, eyes blazing behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked as if he might argue, but one look at his friend's expression made his protests dry up in his throat. He scrambled backwards, up the stairs, and slipped out through the doorway. Crowley waited a few seconds to make sure he was gone, before rising slowly to his feet.

These humans wanted to summon a demon?

Well, they were going to get one.

"Evening, chaps!" he said loudly, plastering on his widest, most serpentine grin as he descended the stairs. Six heads snapped up as they turned in shock to see who dared intrude on their ceremony. "Lovely night for a summoning, what?"

One of the figures took a step forward and pushed back his hood, revealing a balding, hook-nosed man who stared at Crowley in outrage.  
"Just who the devil are y-" he cut off with a strangled sound as Crowley slipped off his glasses.

"I'm the poor sap who had to answer your summons," he told the man.

"B-but the ceremony-"

"_-sod the blasted ceremony!_" Crowley's voice reverberated around the chamber. The candles flared, casting him in sharp relief and making the old man flinch. _Damn, I'm good,_ he thought.

Then the shadows lengthened even more, the room seeming to grow smaller as the candlelight receded. That gave Crowley pause - he hadn't done _that_.

Inside the chalk circle, the cadaver's joints made a sickening cracking sound as it shuddered and drew slowly upright, like a puppet on invisible strings. There was a thud as one of the robed men crumpled to the ground. An ignorant onlooker might have assumed the man had fainted at the grotesque sight before him, but Crowley knew better.

"_Bugger_," he said, with feeling.

One by one, the figures went slack and slumped lifelessly to the floor. As the last one went still, the corpse rose to its feet like a concertina unfolding and raised its head to look at him. Its eyes were a terrible inky black. It croaked and sputtered as its neglected vocal cords struggled, though when it finally found its voice, it was accompanied by something else. A deeper undercurrent, like a chorus of voices of indeterminate gender all speaking at once.

"_YOU_," said the demon, and the corpse's face twitched with surprise as its blank gaze settled on Crowley. "WHAT ARE _YOU_ DOING HERE?"

It was several long seconds before Crowley managed to stop his internal screaming and mould his face into something vaguely resembling composure.

"I heard some humans might try a summoning tonight, so I came out to meet you," he lied, as smoothly as he could given the circumstances. The candles flared again warningly.

"ON WHOSE AUTHORITY?" Crowley shrugged with what he hoped was casual indifference.

"Oh, you know. Orders from lower down." He nudged the body of one of the cowled men with his foot. "I have to say, you were a bit sloppy. If I hadn't dropped by, who would let you out of that summoning circle?"

"ONLY FOOLS WOULD THINK SUCH A PALTRY CIRCLE COULD CONTAIN MY POWER." The cadaver's throat crackled as the demon let out a wheezing laugh. "OF COURSE, THEY'LL GET WHAT'S COMING TO THEM..." The demon chuckled again, trailing off as he realised Crowley wasn't joining in. The dead man leered at him as they caught Crowley's expression of distaste. "OH, YOU THINK YOU'RE _ABOVE_ POSSESSION? TOO GOOD TO SLUM IT IN A CORPSE, IS THAT IT?" They leaned forward, coal-black eyes narrowing. Crowley leaned back as the smell of rotten breath and grave dirt wafted over him.

"I prefer humans _before_ their expiry date." He was quickly running out of ideas, not that he had had many to begin with. He needed to buy himself some time.  
"Listen, is Hastur there?" he said, clutching at straws now. "Can you put him on?"

"_WHAT_?"

"Hastur. You know, Duke of Hell - maybe you've heard of him?"

"I UNDERSTOOD _THAT_. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK LORD HASTUR WANTS TO TALK TO _YOU_?"

"It's important. I'm also not going to let you out of this circle until I've spoken with him, so you may as well get it over with."

"WEREN'T YOU LISTENING?" The demon's voice rose to a shriek, and Crowley inwardly winced. The candles were practically sparking with bursts of light, making the shadows on the walls dance wildly. "THIS PATHETIC CIRCLE CANNOT HOLD ME! I WILL LAY WASTE TO-"

"-Go on then."

"WHAT?"

"Step outside. If you're so powerful."

"I… I COULD. IF I WANTED TO. WHICH I _DON'T_. NOT RIGHT NOW."

"Admit it, your influence barely reaches beyond this room. If you let me talk to Hastur, I'll let you out."

"FINE, HOLD ON," the demon grumbled, the pauper's face going blank as it fell still. Crowley let out a slow breath as he wracked his brains, trying to figure out his next move. He considered making a run for it - but no, some poor bastard would come wandering down here eventually and accidentally unleash hell - literally - on the East End. Besides, Aziraphale was bound to ask awkward questions.

"HASTUR SAYS HE WON'T BE ORDERED AROUND BY THE LIKES OF YOU,_ CROWLEY,_" the demon's layered voice cut into his thoughts, making him jump. They sounded unbearably smug. "HE SAYS YOU'RE TO COME BACK _RIGHT THIS INSTANT,_" they added.

"You can stay and rot in that bloody circle, then!" Crowley snapped. The demon's borrowed face twisted into a snarl, and a second later a blast of force hit him like a speeding hansom, sending him tumbling through the air. He hit the stone wall of the mausoleum and sank to the floor, dazed, in a tangle of limbs and curses.

"I MAY BE STUCK HERE," The demon's voice was like a swarm of wasps between Crowley's ears. "BUT SATAN HELP ME, I'M GOING TO ENJOY MYSELF WHILE I CAN!" Crowley shook his head to clear it, but the room swam sickeningly around him.

"Hurgh…" he managed to say, pushing himself up onto his knees. His joints felt like jellied eels.  
_Hastur,_ he thought bitterly, _you utter bastard_. He could imagine the Duke of Hell tittering away, enjoying the free entertainment. Invisible tendrils yanked him upright and shoved him against the rough brickwork. He was bracing himself for whatever came next, when the door slammed open and a cream and tartan blur came flying down the stairs. Crowley yelped and threw an arm over his eyes as the crypt filled with blinding white light.

"_HAVE AT THEE, FOUL FIEND!_" Aziraphale roared. There was a loud _clang_ and a sickening thud, and Crowley blinked away the spots dancing across his vision to find the demon in the circle gaping at the angel standing over him with a look of abject terror.

"WHO ARE YOU?" they demanded, rubbing the rather pronounced dent in the dead man's forehead. Aziraphale hefted the candelabra in his hand.

"I don't think you're in a position to be asking questions," he said coolly. "And you," he added, rounding on Crowley, his voice laden with doom, "I will deal with you in a moment."

"Ngk." Crowley shrank back against the wall.

"YES," shrieked the demon, extending a filthy hand to point at Crowley, "HE'S THE ONE IN CHARGE! HE'S THE ONE YOU WANT! SMITE HI-"

It took Crowley, in his dazed state, a while to process what happened next. Aziraphale held up something in his other hand that glinted in the candlelight, and with a flick of his wrist the demon was screaming and writhing horribly as its host lit up with phosphorescent flames.

Then the screams withered, and the corpse fell against the flagstones, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone in the sudden silence with several bodies, one of which was still smouldered gently.

"Crowley, are you quite alright?" Aziraphale asked, a little breathlessly. Crowley tore his gaze from the dead man's smoking body and blinked up at him.

"That was… horrifying," he said, admiration creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "Really? Holy water?" Aziraphale had the grace to look a little sheepish, at least.

"Apparently they hadn't bothered to empty the font upstairs."

"You're not going to be very popular _downstairs_ after that display."

"I've never actually smote a demon before," Aziraphale admitted, looking a bit green around the edges. Crowley opened his mouth to tell him he hadn't - exorcism didn't actually kill demons, simply sent them back downstairs with their pride somewhat dented - but thought better of it and instead made a show of clambering to his feet and brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. (Besides, Aziraphale was responsible for at least one smitten demon. He decided to keep that thought to himself.)

"Is that a _communion_ goblet?" he said instead, nodding to the vessel in the angel's hand. Aziraphale's cheeks pinkened.

"It was the first thing I had to hand," he said, a touch defensively.

**ΨψΨψΨ**

The cool midnight air was a welcome change from the musty crypt. Aziraphale shuddered as he stepped through the doorway of the little chapel, the cloying wrongness of the place slipping away as he crossed the threshold.

"I'll have to come back tomorrow and bless this place," he said to himself with a frown. Crowley gave a noncommittal grunt and resolved to be as far away as possible when that happened, especially if there was more holy water involved.

"Holy water," he muttered to himself. An idea was beginning to form in his mind, nebulous and vague, but there nonetheless. Aziraphale turned and gave him a strange look over his shoulder.

"What was that?"

"Oh. Nothing." Crowley scratched his whiskers absently. "By the way, thanks for the, erm." He grimaced and cleared his throat. "For the rescue."

"Oh, that wasn't a rescue, dear boy."

"No?"

"Not at all. As a matter of fact, I am taking you into - what is that marvellous turn of phrase the bobbies use? 'Into custody'." Aziraphale beamed, clearly delighted with himself.

"Alas, I am bested."

"Indeed. Now, let us retire to the bookshop. I don't know about you, but I could use a stiff drink."

The chapel soon disappeared into the London fog as Aziraphale and his 'prisoner' made their way along the silent streets. There was no one to see them but the moon, visible only in snatches as it began its steady, inexorable descent toward the sloped rooftops of the city.


End file.
